Ghost in the Blood (The Ghosts) (5 page)

“Then I should like to meet her,” said Halfdan. “As soon as possible.”

“I will see if I can arrange something,” said Zorgi. “Her steward likes to dine here some nights. And your fair daughter…eh? Many young lords flock to Lady Palaegus’s balls.”

Caina blinked. Palaegus. That had been one of the names in Icaraeus’s ledger. 

“I think she would like that,” said Halfdan.

Caina walked back into the suite, leaving Halfdan to pump the innkeeper for information. 

She stopped in surprise.

A woman in a black dress emerged from one of the bedrooms, a hammer in one hand. Thin and pale, she looked about Zorgi’s age, and had  signs of strain around her eyes and mouth. She stopped when she saw Caina, and her eyes went wide.

“Pardon,” said Caina. “I didn’t know you were here.”

The woman nodded. She looked…frightened.  For a moment Caina thought the woman was a thief, and then the truth came to her.

“You’re Zorgi’s wife, aren’t you?” said Caina. “Katerine.”

“I am, mistress,” said the woman, speaking Caerish with a thick Szaldic accent. 

“You were putting up those charms,” said Caina, pointing at the hammer. “Why?”

“I put up the charms over your windows, mistress,” said Katerine. A trembling little smile appeared on her face. “Keep the bad things out. I mean no harm. Please do not be angry.”

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” said Caina. 

“Thank you, mistress,” said Katerine. “I must go about my work now.” She hurried to the door.

“Wait,” said Caina.

Katerine froze, her face stricken.

“Your Inn is a lovely place,” said Caina. 

“Thank you, mistress.” She fled before Caina could say anything else. 

Katerine had been frightened of something, and that bothered Caina. Anna Callenius was not supposed to scare anyone. Had Katerine deduced something of Caina’s true purpose? But that seemed unlikely. Perhaps wealthy women simply unnerved her. It could not be an easy life, waiting upon proud merchants and their demanding wives and daughters. 

She looked at the iron horseshoes nailed to the doorframes, thinking. 

Halfdan came into the room, followed by Ark, and shut the door behind him. 

“Did Zorgi tell you anything useful?” said Caina.

“Some things,” said Halfdan, looking over the rooms. “People are frightened. There are all sorts of rumors about slave traders in the city, but nothing substantial. He thinks he might arrange an invitation for us to one of Lady Palaegus’s parties.” 

“Palaegus?” said Caina. “One of the names in Icaraeus’s ledger.”

“Aye,” said Halfdan. “We’ll go, drink her wine, laugh at her witticisms, and have a look around. And if I see anything I don’t like, she’ll regret it sorely.” 

“What happened to Zorgi?” said Caina. 

Halfdan’s voice was quiet. “Noticed that, did you?”

“Noticed what?” said Ark. “He seemed much as I remember.” 

Halfdan shook his head. “He’s aged too quickly, and he walks like a man in pain. He’s suffered some sort of blow.”

“I think,” said Caina, “that one of his children died.”

Halfdan and Ark stared at her.

“All those horseshoes,” said Caina. “I saw Katerine nailing up some more. They must have lost a child. Now Katerine is nailing up charms against the Moroaica to...fight her grief, I suppose.”

“Zorgi did have a new son the last time I was here,” said Halfdan. “Cheerful lad. Four or five years old at the most. Gods, that’s a hard blow. Cruel enough when they die in childbirth, or in the first week. But after they’ve grown a bit…that’s the cruelest of all.”  

That, at least, was a pain that Caina would never know. Though it was a mercy she could have done without.

“What now?” said Caina.

“The day’s almost done,” said Halfdan. “Tomorrow I’ll see about that invitation to Lady Palaegus’s ball.” His voice dropped. “And we’ll make contact with the local Ghost circle. In the meantime…Zorgi sets an excellent table. I suggest we make use of it.” 

###

Master Zorgi did, indeed, set an excellent table. Halfdan pronounced the wine excellent, though Caina thought it tasted like any other wine. Though the food was superb. Caina had eaten jerky and vegetables on the road for weeks, and it had been a long time since she had eaten so well. She listened as the other guests, mostly merchants, talked about trade routes and tariffs and inventories and other matters. A few complained about the slave raids, but did not seem too concerned. 

When you had enough money, Caina supposed, tragedy was something that happened to other people.

“I can tell you were in the Legions, Arlann,” said Zorgi, as Ark sopped up some gravy with a heel of bread. “You eat like a soldier.”

“If there’s food,” said Ark, “better eat it now. There might be none tomorrow.” 

“Master Zorgi,” said Caina, “your table is superb.”

The innkeeper gave her a wide smile. “Ah, my Katerine, she is a queen among cooks, no?”

“Truly,” said Caina. “Give her my compliments, please.”

“Of course,” said Zorgi, a shadow crossing his face. 

###

Afterwards Caina retired to their rooms and made liberal use of the bath. It was glorious. The water was hot, and Caina soaked for a long time, letting the heat work its way into her limbs. She rinsed the grease from her hair and scrubbed the sweat and grime of the road from her limbs. 

Languid from the bath and the food, she dressed for bed. Perhaps she was tired enough that no dreams would come.

###

The faint sound of weeping awoke her. 

Caina rolled to her feet in a smooth motion, snatching the dagger from beneath her pillow. Her bedroom was empty, moonlight spilling across the carpets. A salt-scented breeze blew through the open shutters, accompanied by the faint sound of crying.

She crossed to the windows and looked down.

Katerine wandered through the Inn’s gardens, weeping, arms wrapped tight around herself, her face twisted with anguish and sorrow. 

A dark shape crossed the garden, and Caina saw Zorgi hurry to his wife. He took her hands, speaking to her in low, urgent tones. Caina could not make out any of the words. Katerine shook her head, still weeping. But at last she sagged against her husband, and allowed Zorgi to lead her back to the Inn. 

Caina watched them go, wondering just what had happened to their son. 

She went back to bed.

###

This time a new nightmare awaited her. 

Caina fled through hallways of black stone, trying not to scream. A shadow flowed after her, and she knew that it carried death. Her foot caught on something and she fell, hitting the cold floor. 

The girl in the gray dress stared down at her, face expressionless, the silver comb glittering in her hair.

The shadow fell upon Caina, and she screamed.

###

She awoke with the sun in her eyes, sweat dripping down her face. For a moment she expected to see the shadow lurking in the corner, or perhaps the solemn-faced girl, but her bedroom was empty.

“I don’t care what Halfdan says,” Caina muttered, pushing aside the blankets. “No wine before bed.”

Chapter 5 - The Ghosts of Marsis

The next morning Halfdan went to arrange a meeting with the Ghost circle of Marsis. Caina took Ark and wandered through the market plaza across from Zorgi’s Inn, chatting with the shopkeepers and merchants. Business was good, could be better. They had heard of slaver raids, oh yes, such a shame. Would she like to buy a bracelet? Or a necklace?

There was a bookshop, and Caina entered it with longing. It reminded her of her father’s library. He had taught her to read there. Her happiest memories were of that library, spending the evenings with his books while he worked at his desk. 

Of course, some of her worst memories were there as well.

Caina bought a book and took it back to their suite at Zorgi’s. She sat down to read as Ark sharpened his broadsword and his daggers, a ritual that he did every day without fail. Written by some long-dead scholar, the book described the legends of the Szaldic people, their folklore and myths. Caina read of men who became wolves and feasted upon the flesh of women, of witches lurking in the woods, of wicked spirits who dwelt in lakes and took the form of nude young women to lure foolish men to their doom. (Here, of course, the long-dead scholar had included illustrations.) Of the gods who threw down the demons and chained them below Black Angel Tower. The Moroaica, the queen of demons, who stole young children and feasted upon their hearts. The Solmonari, cruel yet wise, who defended the people from the demons and the wicked spirits. 

A demon-haunted people, the book called the Szalds. Caina thought of Katerine and her horseshoes. 

“Rasadda,” said Ark.

Caina looked at him.

“You would read in Rasadda, too,” he said. 

“You’re welcome to the book when I’m done,” said Caina. 

“You read for enjoyment,” said Ark, bemused, “the way some men hunt or play cards.”

“Does that seem so odd to you?” said Caina.

“It does,” said Ark. “I learned to read in the Legions. But it was a tool. Like a hammer. I used it when needed, nothing more.” 

“People need to eat,” said Caina, “but they still hunt for enjoyment anyway.” 

Ark smiled a little. “Tanya liked to hunt.” 

“She did?”

“It’s not considered proper for highborn Nighmarian women, but the Szalds have different customs,” said Ark. “I suppose we were technically poachers, but the village of Hruzac was far from any garrison.” His eyes went distant, and he stared at the gleaming edge of his broadsword. 

“My father’s library,” said Caina. “I learned to read there, while my mother raged and pursued her studies of arcane science.” 

“Women and sorcery,” said Ark. “An unpleasant mix.”

“Sorcery and anyone,” said Caina. “If every last sorcerer died tomorrow, the world would be a better place by far.” 

“I can’t argue with that,” said Ark, turning his attention to the sword. Caina smiled and returned to her book. She read how the Solmonari fought the Moroaica and her demons, teaching the people charms of cold iron to ward away the dark things of the night... 

“If you sit about reading, daughter, you’ll never find a husband.”

Caina looked up to see Halfdan. “Would not a husband prefer a well-read wife, Father?”

“Probably not,” said Halfdan. “But if you’ll join me, we have other business.”

Caina stood, and Ark buckled on his sword. “Where to?”

Halfdan smiled. “We’re going to see a locksmith.”

###

Halfdan had rented a coach, and it bounced and rattled through the streets of Marsis. They rode to a tailor’s shop perhaps a half-mile from Zorgi’s Inn, the windows filled with bolts of cloth. 

“We could have walked,” said Caina. 

“I am a master merchant of status and influence,” said Halfdan. “I do not walk.”

“I thought we were going to see a locksmith,” said Caina, looking at the bolts of cloth.

“We are,” said Halfdan, opening the coach’s door. “This way.” 

He led them to a narrow alley alongside the tailor’s shop. A wooden staircase rose to the third floor and a massive steel door set into the wall. Caina stared at the door, frowning. She knew a quite a bit about locks and mechanical traps, thanks to her nightfighter training, and the lock on the door was the most complicated one she had ever seen. And to judge from the various panels and bolts on the door, forcing the lock would trigger all kinds of traps. Poisoned needles, most likely. 

Halfdan saw her looking, grinned, and knocked. 

A moment later a little window opened in the door. “Yes?” said a woman’s voice in a lilting Kyracian accent. 

“Good day,” said Halfdan. “I am Basil Callenius, master merchant, and I would like to speak with Radast. I was told there would be a meeting.”

Caina caught a glimpse of hard black eyes through the little window. “Where do the shadows hide?” said the woman in High Nighmarian.

“Wherever tyrants rule,” said Halfdan in the same language, “wherever the people live in dread, then let the wicked fear the Ghosts in the shadows.” 

Several locks released with heavy thumps. The massive steel door swung open with a groan. A thin woman with a grim expression stood behind it, her black hair streaked with gray. She had the dark eyes and golden-brown skin of a native-born Kyracian. “Basil, welcome,” she said, switching back to Caerish. “And Arlann. Good to see you again.” She glanced at Caina. “Who is this?”

“My daughter, Anna Callenius,” said Halfdan. “A woman of considerable expertise in certain useful fields.” 

“Indeed,” said the woman. She bowed, and Caina bowed back. “You may call me Jiri. Come inside, please.”

They followed Jiri into one of the oddest rooms Caina had ever seen.

The room took up almost the entire top floor of the building, with windows overlooking the street below. Long tables ran the length of the room, each of them laden with gears, cogs, springs, glass tubing, half-disassembled locks, crossbows, and a variety of nasty-looking mechanical traps. Slates hung from the walls, covered in endless mathematical equations scrawled in chalk.

“Radast!” called Jiri. “Our guests have arrived.”

A Szaldic man shuffled to Jiri’s side, gaunt and thin, his black hair and beard wild and unkempt. His clothes and leather apron were ragged and grease-stained, and variety of tools shone in the apron’s pouches. His face kept twitching in a way that made him look both crazed and harmless. Yet there was something icy in his eyes, something detached and calculating. 

“Radast,” said Halfdan. “Good to see you again.”

“Four hundred and sixty-seven.” Radast blinked several times, and nodded. “Four hundred and sixty-seven days since you last were here. Arlann was with you then.” His eyes widened when he saw Caina, and he stepped towards her.

“You are sixty-eight inches tall,” he said. “Also…a hundred and thirty pounds. Less if you were naked. Or is it a hundred and thirty-four?” He scratched his head for a moment, thinking. “Oh. I see. Yes. Two daggers in your boots, and four throwing knives strapped to your forearms. That would throw off the numbers, wouldn’t it? Very well hidden. I suspect the average man would only have a one in forty-nine chance of spotting them.”

“Ah…thank you,” said Caina.

“Radast,” said Jiri, putting her hands on his arms, “this is inappropriate.”

“But my numbers are correct!” said Radast.  

“This is my daughter, Anna Callenius,” said Halfdan. “Anna, this is Radast, a master of the Imperial Collegium of Locksmiths. The very best in the city, and possibly the Empire. He receives the special jobs from the Collegium, for patrons who have…unique security needs.” 

“None of the others understand,” said Radast. “They think in metal and screws and springs. Bah! Useless! It is about numbers. The equations must balance. The physical reality must reflect the mathematical reality. Only then will the lock be strong.”

“And,” said Halfdan, “he does many useful things for the Ghosts.”

For the first time Radast smiled. “You give me such interesting problems.” He looked at Caina, eyes wide and excited. “Did you know that, assuming proper variables, it is possible to precisely calculate the trajectory of a crossbow bolt?” He grabbed Caina’s arm. Her first instinct was to break his fingers, but she let him propel her towards one of the slates. “Here, let me show you. You start by…”

“Enough,” said a man’s voice, deep with a Nighmarian accent. “If you get that lunatic started, he’ll rave for the rest of the day.” 

A man sat sprawled in a comfortable chair by the window, watching them. He was only a few years her senior, Caina guessed. He wore Legion armor, polished until it shone, and a broadsword at his belt. His armor had golden trim, his crimson cloak looked new, and the leather of his boots and sword belt gleamed. A tribune, Caina realized, an officer commanding a cohort of six hundred Legionaries. Ark always said that the centurions ran the Legions, while the highborn tribunes idled in spoiled indolence. 

And yet. The man rose to his feet with a single smooth motion. Heavy calluses marked the fingers of his sword hand. Caina supposed he knew how to use that broadsword. 

“Tribune Ducas,” said Halfdan, “I see you got our message.”

“I did,” said Ducas. “It’s sad world, when a noble tribune, heir to the name of an ancient House of high lineage, has to run at the beck and call of a tradesman.”

“Merchant,” said Halfdan.

“There’s a difference?” said Ducas. “And still dragging around this old wreck of a retired centurion, I see.” He grinned and gripped hands with Ark in the fashion of the Legions, a sort of combined handshake and arm-wrestling match. “You ought to find yourself a woman. That’ll take that sour look off your face, centurion.”

“I told you, tribune,” said Ark, “I’m married.” 

“Ha,” said Ducas. “It’s as if you were an Anshani monk. Women are all the same, Ark. Find one and tumble her. You’ll feel better, trust me.”

Jiri scowled. Caina suspected that she did not care for Ducas. Or, for that matter, that Ducas and Radast liked each other very much. It might not matter; she had seen men who loathed each other work well together. Still, this might explain how Icaraeus had operated undetected out of Marsis for so long. 

Ducas’s eyes turned to Caina. “And this is your daughter, Basil?” He smirked. “She doesn’t look at all like you.” 

Caina gripped her skirts and did a curtsy. 

“Pretty little thing, though,” said Ducas, looking her up and down.  “I suppose your father wants to find you a husband, eh? Why don’t you stop by my lodgings sometimes?” His smirk looked like it belonged on a shark. “We’ll see if you’ll make an appropriate wife.” 

“No reason the equation should balance a second time,” muttered Radast.

Ducas’s eyes narrowed. “What? What was that?”

“Enough of this!” said Jiri. “Stop bickering like children. We have work to do.” Both men subsided. 

Interesting. 

“You are of course correct,” said Halfdan. “Business first. A few days past we almost captured Lord Naelon Icaraeus at the White Road Inn, but he escaped. We think he came to Marsis.”

“Naelon Icaraeus?” said Ducas. “Gods of the Empire, how I want to have that bastard’s head on a platter.” 

“We found his ledgers,” said Halfdan. “Some of his slaves go to Istarinmul and Anshan and New Kyre. But most of his profit comes from slaves he’s selling in Marsis for enormous sums of money. Which means he’s getting them into the city somehow.” 

“I know that,” said Ducas, irritated. “We’ve been looking. The Legion inspects every wagon that comes into the city, every ship that pulls into a dock. Nothing. Not a trace of the slaves.”

“Soldiers can be bribed,” said Halfdan. “I used a silver piece to get past the gate without trouble. Legionary pay isn’t all that high. It wouldn’t take much money to overlook a hold full of slaves. And there are other ways. Hidden compartments. False barrels. All the old smuggler tricks.” 

“And soldiers are often blind fools,” said Jiri, earning a scowl from Ducas. “I have many informants among the dockworkers and the porters, those who actually unload the ships. None of them have seen anything suspicious. And…have you ever smelled a slave ship, Basil?”

Halfdan nodded.

“All those slaves chained in the hold, stewing in their own shit and sweat and terror,” said Jiri. “There is no other stink like it, thank the gods. None of the ships have that smell.”  

“So,” said Halfdan, “that means Icaraeus is careful. Smuggling slaves in small numbers, not packed head-to-toe like in an Istarish slave ship. Maybe no more than five or six to a ship. That can hide from the inspectors.” Ducas started to protest, and Halfdan cut him off. “Do your men go over every inch of the ship, from bow to stern? Or do they just glance around the hold?”

Ducas grunted. 

“There could be another way,” said Caina.

Jiri lifted her eyebrows, and Ducas gave her a sullen glare. Radast seemed oblivious to the conversation.

“Icaraeus has access to some level of sorcery,” said Caina. “There were always rumors that he had a sorcerer working for him, but now I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

“Oh, you have, have you?” said Ducas. “And what do you know of sorcery?”

“I’ve killed magi before,” said Caina, voice quiet.

“She has,” said Ark. “I’ve seen her do it.”

Ducas frowned and said nothing. Jiri blinked a few times and took a harder look at Caina. 

“Arlann,” said Caina. “Show him the knife.”

Ark produced the knife she had flung at Icaraeus, its blade twisted and splintered. 

“I tried to kill Icaraeus. I would have killed Icaraeus,” said Caina, “but he had some sort of enspelled bauble, probably his bracers, that deflected the blow.”

“A broken knife,” said Ducas. “That proves nothing.”

Radast came closer, staring at the blade with fascination. “The angles are all wrong. Metal doesn’t break that way. Not naturally.” 

“I have relied upon my daughter’s observations in the past,” said Halfdan. “If she says Icaraeus had some sort of sorcery, then he does. Which might explain how Icaraeus is getting his slaves into Marsis.” 

“So he has a sorcerer working for him,” said Jiri. “Or he is working for a sorcerer.”